


Living Canvas

by ashleyerwinner



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcoholism, Competition, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Television, Top!Cas, artist!Cas, body painting, bottom!Dean, model!dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 08:54:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5737462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashleyerwinner/pseuds/ashleyerwinner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Sam's law school loans, and his father's medical bills, Dean is faced with no other choice to audition to model for a new body painting competition show, Living Canvas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Audition Processing

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy! I haven't done a long fic in a LONG time. This fic has been rattling around in my brain for a while now, and it feels good to finally start getting it all on paper (screen? anyway). This fic deals with alcoholism (from John's end, not Dean's), and has no major or minor character death. Eventually, there will be a chapter that deals with feminization used as a tool to humiliate Dean sexually, but it doesn't come from Cas' end, and I will most certainly tag that, as it could upset people. 
> 
> Enjoy the first chapter!!

Dean Winchester stood at the steps at the auditions to become a Living Canvas model. He could turn around; he could just turn, about face, and hightail it the fuck out of there. He could push this embarrassment into the deep recesses of his brain, to pretend to the world that this was never an option he'd thought about. That Dean Winchester: son of John Winchester, mechanic extraordinaire, burger-eating, pool-hustling, womanizer Dean Winchester, had ever considered to be nothing more than a prop for hippie-dippie artists to paint nasty smelling high-brow artworks on his body. He could. There’s really nothing stopping him at all. Except that there is.

Money.

Money, that heartless bitch, shut up his pride. As much the thought of whoring himself out on public television makes him want to dig himself into a six-foot deep hole, there's no other way.

With a deep breath in, shoving his pride aside, Dean rolled his eyes and walked up the stairs, through the doors, and into the line where the models auditioning awaited to have photographs taken, a process that reminded Dean of having mugshots done; head on, profile, and then a toneless, “you’re done”. It was as if it was a clone experiment process: brainless, robotic movements, no laughter, no passion. It just was. The entire process lasted no more than 30 minutes, then another 30 seconds of photographs. A “thanks, you’re done,” was tossed towards Dean’s way, and then he was off, hoping, despite himself, that he’d get a call.

It’s not like it would be the end of the world if he didn’t get the job; he’d find something, or a couple somethings. He’d lower himself to work just about anything, whether it was in the sewers or fast food or… anything. But he’d read the amount per episode that these models got paid in boredom, scrolling down Facebook (that his brother set up for him, thank you very much), and decided it had the potential to solve all the financial issues in one fell swoop.

He’d never hear the end of it from his brother, or Bobby, of course. Their hyper-masculine Dean, a model? It was fucking laughable.

Of course, they’d never actually make him a laughingstock. His reasons were above himself, as always. His brother’s law school loans were a big part of it, outrageously high. The biggest part, however, was for his father.

His father needed help. Some… kind of help. The alcohol itself had been a crutch since his mother passed away, and no one had better seats than the effects of alcoholism than Dean and Sam. Of course, his father was always in denial, still was, but Dean could see the effects were becoming worse and worse. His father refused to go to the hospital, even though he and Sam begged him, and after a night of drinking, he’d wrapped himself (and his beloved Impala) around a tree. He’d been arrested at the hospital, but not before they found out his liver was failing. All those years of binge drinking caught up with his old man, and the medical bills were piling up.

It wasn’t Dean’s responsibility, necessarily. Except that it was. All he knew in his life was taking care of his family. His brother, he raised while his father was MIA, and when his dad finally had the audacity to show up after weeks, he’d take care of him too. It’s what he was good for. Taking care of people.

He’d take care of this too.


	2. Selected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets selected to be a part of Living Canvas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Life, life, life. Hopefully, I'll be able to have a set schedule for this story because I have SO much planned for it!!!

Dean was good at a lot of things. Like, a lot of things. Fixing cars, taking care of people, cooking, cleaning, making sure the toilet paper was in the right direction every time, sex, whatever. Being patient? Not on that list. As soon as he left the auditions, the anticipation set in. No matter what he did, in the back of his mind echoed, “did they call? Did they call? Did they call?”

Don’t get him wrong, he knew this whole model thing was a long shot. He’d seen the previous season (not the whole thing, okay? An episode. Just… one.), and there were only chicks on it. Not that it was a bad thing, necessarily. Dean’s only human, and the female form is all too captivating, especially since the women on that show are either wearing pasties and panties or are the artists painting on the pastied and pantied women. So, of course, auditioning for a model on a fairly female model show was a long shot. And luckily for him, a long shot meant that he could get away with not telling his family or friends that he had sunk down low enough to audition for it.

And it wasn’t like he was hoping for a call to say he’d got on the show. He just wanted a call with an answer either way. A call for yes or a call for no. Just an answer. Of course, checking his phone ninety-nine times a day was getting him a lot of side-eyes from Bobby and Sam. He was sure they’d thought it was a hook-up that wasn’t calling him back, or maybe something a little more sinister, because Dean was the idiot who always found himself in bed with people with significant others who might be out to get him. And normally this would bother him, except that if they thought the worst of him, at least they wouldn’t be thinking _this_ of him.

He’d been told all his life by everyone how pretty he is. How sexy his pouty lips were, how attractive his cheekbones were, how captivating his eyes were. But he’d always felt a sense of unease at complimentary words like those, for whatever reason. He wasn’t a piece of meat. He had thoughts and feelings and whatever like any other person. And now of course he’d gone and put himself in the position to be judged on solely his looks, and for what? Money. Typical vapid, good-looking, attention-seeking behavior. Exactly what he’d tried to avoid his entire life.

He’d gone out of his way to be out of positive-attention at all, really. He’d been the jerk loner in high school, he’d forgone college to start working at Bobby’s Salvage Yard, and he’d only ever used his looks to advantage to get girls into bed with him, even though he’d like to think his charming wit and demeanor had more to do with that than his looks.

He sighed through his nose at himself, subconsciously berating himself for getting himself distracted at work _again_. He’d been off his game for weeks now, ever since he’d left the auditions and gotten himself worked up over nothing. He really needed to be thinking about other options. McDonald’s was hiring. The Roadhouse always needed a bartender –

His phone buzzed in his back pocket, cutting off his train of thought.

He took off his work gloves, and threw them onto the hood of the car he’d been working on, zipped his work jumpsuit and fished his phone out of his back pocket. It was probably Sammy, he’d thought, wondering where the peanut butter or how to unclog the kitchen sink with all the fucking quinoa he’d crammed in there.

He glanced down at the strange number on the screen before answering uncertainly with a “hello?”

“ _Hello! Is this Mr. Dean Winchester?”_ The bubbly voice on the other end of the line asked. Dean’s heart dropped to his stomach.

“Uh, yeah, this is him,” he responded. His mind was racing a hundred miles per minute.

 _“Great! My name is Sarah and I’m an associate from the producers of_ Living Canvas _, and we’re thrilled to tell you the news that you’ve been selected –“_ Her voice faded out as Dean’s breath was stolen from him. He’d been selected. He was in the money, now. He’d be able to get Sammy through college. He’d be able to pay off his dad’s medical bills. All it’d cost him was his dignity.

 _“Dean?”_ Sarah’s voice sounded. Dean knocked himself back into the present.

“Yeah, sorry. I got – not important. Thank you so much,” he said, his face breaking into a grin. “Really, thank you so much.”

\--

Dean stirred his homemade marinara sauce absentmindedly, trying to figure out the best way to break the news to Sam and Bobby. Really, this would be the hardest part of this whole situation. He could lie. Or at least not tell them. Say he’s going to a town over to work at a friend’s new business until they’d hired trustworthy people. But they’d catch on to him quickly. He’d never been the best liar. He’d probably get away with it until Sam tracked his phone and found him stripped down to his shivvies getting painted by some hack on a television set. Worst case scenario. He might even get far enough to not tell them until they flipped through channels and saw his face walking down a runway. Even worse case scenario.

So, he’d planned on making their favorite meal. Homemade spaghetti and meatballs, with a side of cheesy garlic bread. Sure, they’d figure something was up when they saw the meal in front of them, but at least they’d be able to open this uncomfortable talk without any kind of bullshit. And he’d need the food to settle his stomach once they started the jokes about their new famous model Dean Winchester.

Maybe he should call the casting people back and decline their selection.

A pop of marinara sauce burned his forearm, and Dean was brought back into the world. With a clearing of his throat, he called out to his family to come eat dinner. Moose sounding stomps come down the stairs, and Sam, bouncing hair and childish smile, comes bounding into the kitchen.

“Spaghetti? What’s the occasion?” He smirks, grabbing a plate and helping himself to the food on the stove. Dean half-chuckles and serves himself, too, not saying a word. Soundlessly, Bobby comes into the kitchen, grabbing a plate and looking at the spread suspiciously.

“You introducin’ us to a girl, boy?” He says gruffly, and Dean keeps his eyes down, silently spooning sauce on top of his entire plate.

“If there was a girl, Bobby, you wouldn’t be asking,” Sam laughs, and Bobby huffs, serving himself a heap of noodles. They settle themselves at the table, eating silently, until Bobby puts down his fork and waits. Sam catches on, and looks between the two of them, chewing obnoxiously.

“Wha’s gon on?” He mumbles, his mouth full, and Dean sighs before setting his hands on the table in front of him, flicking his fingernails together, trying to muster up the words.

“Spit it out, kid.” Bobby says, and Dean takes a deep breath.

“So, we’ve been struggling, you know, financially,” Dean starts. Sam keeps shoveling food into his mouth, nodding along. “With Sam being accepted into Stanford, which is awesome, but also with Dad’s medical bills –“

“You don’ haff to worry ‘bou tha’ Dean,” Sam says, mouth still full, with a roll of his eyes. He swallows before continuing. “Dad can get himself out of this hole he dug. And I can get loans, student aid, stuff like that.”

“And then you’d get stuck with debt? No, Sam.” Dean has a thousand more arguments on his tongue, but with Sam beginning his thesis, he figures it’s better now just to spit it out. “I auditioned for _Living Canvas_ and I got selected.” He says, and he stares at the two shocked faces in front of him.

“I… didn’t know you painted, Dean,” Sam says, his face going through sixteen different emotions in thirty seconds flat. “But I’m proud –“

“Not… as a painter,” Dean starts, his face hot. “As… a model.” He stares first at Bobby’s still shocked face, and then over to Sam’s, who’s clearly trying to hold back laughter.

“And I’m Shirley Temple,” Bobby says, gruffly, laughing. Sam joins in, and Dean sits stiffly.

“It’s good to meet you Ms. Temple,” Dean says blankly, raising his eyebrows, and they both stop laughing at once.

“You’re… you’re serious.” Sam says. “You auditioned to be a model… for a television show, and they selected you.”

“What, I’m not attractive? Harsh, Sam.”

“No, it’s not that –“

“You stupid, boy? You spent your _whole_ life tryin’ hard not to be this person –“

“Why can’t you just stay here? At the shop? You don’t have to do this for us, Dean, we can handle –“

“You think I ain’t gonna help this family out with college? You boys are as close to sons I’ll ever have –“

Dean slams his hand down on the table, and they both stop talking.

“This is already done. I’ve made this commitment. I’m going to do this. You,” he points at Sam, “are going to take the money I give you for your college tuition. And both of you,” he looks between his brother and Bobby, “are going to be happy about it. This is what I want to do. I want to help, anyway I can. You gotta let me do this.” They both stare at him, clearly absorbing his words.

“Do we have to keep our jokes to ourselves or…” Sam says, and Dean chucks his garlic bread at his face.

“We support you, Dean,” Bobby says. “We just don’ want you doin’ nothin’ that you don’t _have_ to do. And you don’t _have_ to do this. Understood?” His eyes bore into Dean, questioning him down to his core.

“Understood.” He says, and with a sigh, the tension from his shoulders is released. “Now eat. This is some quality dinner tonight,” he says.

“Careful, Dean,” Sam says. “You know the camera adds five extra pounds.”

Bobby’ll forgive him for the spaghetti stain on the walls after he flings a forkful of dinner at his annoying little brother.


End file.
